Chapter 12 - Powerless

Lyra

Lyra’s breath was shallow and erratic as Alpha Veyron loomed over her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, but her voice refused to come. The silence was absolute. Noone dared breathe.

His chest rose and fell heavily as he stared her down, the golden intensity of his eyes burning into her soul. Those eyes… they felt so familiar. Where…? 

“Who are you?” He demanded again.

His gaze roamed her face, his body rigid and trembling with restraint. The connection between them thrummed, wrapping tighter with every passing moment, drowning her in its rawness. Warmth spread through her abdomen.

Her mouth opened again. Say something, she begged herself. Anything.

But then, a graceful hand curved over Veyron’s broad shoulder with deliberate care. 

“Alpha,” the Mistress intoned.

It took him a heartbeat too long to respond. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his head turned toward her, the hard lines of his jaw flexing as though it took all his will to drag his focus away.

The Mistress’s hand slid down his arm, controlling the beast on the brink of madness. Veyron’s breath slowed. The fire in his gaze dimmed, though the embers smoldered still. Finally, he straightened, stepping back from Lyra with a reluctance that sent a shiver through her.

He glanced at a guard standing stiffly near the far end of the room. “Bring her to my chambers,” he ordered.

The guard nodded, escorting Lyra through the exhaling crowd. Veyron watched her until she reached the door, then turned on his heel. The Mistress trailed gracefully behind him. 

***

The guards shoved Lyra into the Alpha’s room, forcing her to stumble to her knees on the sisal carpet, which scraped her palms. The door slammed shut behind her. 

Weapons lined one wall, each polished to a lethal gleam. Annotated maps stretched across a massive desk. The immense bed and stark linens were more a throne of conquest than an invitation for comfort.

Lyra paced, the rough rug creaking beneath her steps. Why did he ask me who I was? Did he recognize me? She paused at the door, resting her ear against the cool wood. If he finds out I’m here for my father... if he even suspects— Will he kill me? Will Aunt Kyline suffer for bringing me here?

Her brow furrowed as she listened. Her fingers brushed the handle, testing it, but it refused to budge. Of course, it was locked. She jolted away.

He can’t know. I can’t slip.

Her gaze darted to the high windows, far above her reach. She approached them anyway, craning her neck to see the stretch of dark sky and the endless grasslands beyond. 

The desk across the room drew her attention next. Lyra approached cautiously, her fingers skimming the polished edge. 

He pinned me like prey. Is that what I am? Prey to be devoured? Opening the drawers, her fingers flexed over a letter opener she could protect herself with.

Maybe, I am. I’d be powerless to defend myself against his strength anyway. She straightened abruptly, yanking her empty hand back. 

Crossed swords mounted above the hearth reflected glowing embers, edges sharp and unforgiving. 

I shouldn’t be here. I’m not strong enough for this. Her hands clenched into fists as she forced herself to look away. And my father? Why am I risking everything for someone who treated me like nothing?

She crossed to the fur-lined chair by the fire, resting her fingers lightly on the backrest. The soft material yielded under her touch, but she didn’t sit. 

He’s powerful, dangerous. But there was something else in his eyes. And the thing that I felt as he approached me… What was that? She tightened her grip on the chair, her knuckles whitening.  No. It’s nothing. Theron rejected you because you’re unwanted, unworthy of a mate!

Standing in the center of the room, Lyra turned back to the door, wrapping her arms around herself. What now? Her gaze lingered on the locked handle, her lips pressing into a tight line. I don’t even know if I’ll leave this room alive.